Brother Knows Best
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Home tag: Sam's still struggling with nightmares; Dean has an idea.


**Brother Knows Best**  
K Hanna Korossy

He really should have been more suspicious of the pancakes.

Sam woke to an almost forgotten feeling of a solid night's sleep, and the scent of hot pancakes and breakfast meat. He blinked at the sight across the room, two bags piled on the table. Of his brother there was no sign, but the bathroom door was closed.

He levered himself up from the bed by careful inches. There were still bruises upon bruises along the length of his body from the poltergeist in their old house, although sleep and time and some heat packs had finally eased the worst of the ache. His throat was also healing, still tender but no longer threatening to seal up on him if he so much as swallowed. Dean had gotten them a room for a few days so Sam could heal, and although he'd chafed a little at first, he was grateful for the concession. He hadn't realized how close he'd been running to empty until he'd had a chance to refill.

The water ran inside the bathroom and then Dean walked out, wiping his hands on a towel. The sight of Sam sitting up chased a pleased look across his face. "I brought food."

"So I smelled." Sam grinned back tiredly, and pushed himself to his feet. He only swayed a little, and Dean's keen eye didn't leave him until he found his feet and walked over to the table. "To what do I owe pancakes?"

A seemingly careless shrug. "You skipped breakfast yesterday—figured we could splurge a little today."

Sam's appetite was slowly returning, too, but he'd been sleeping a lot. The day before, he hadn't woken until lunchtime, to a restless and starving Dean. They'd actually gone out for food then, for the first time since they'd settled in the room. For the first time in a week, the sun had felt good on Sam's face instead of too hot and bright.

Sam sank down at the table, not even wondering how Dean had known to get breakfast just now, because the containers still steamed as he opened them. Dean settled into the chair across from him, dishing out plastic utensils and bottles of juice. Sam opened his—orange, because Dean always pushed Vitamin C when Sam was recovering—and took a long swallow. It burned his injured throat a little but felt good, too, and Sam blinked the last of sleep from his eyes.

Dean cast him one more assessing glance, then dug into his own food.

"So…" Sam finally spoke after putting away two pancakes in quick succession. His body was starting to remember what food was again, and was making up for lost time. "We're leaving tomorrow?"

"You still feel up to it?" Dean asked around a mouthful of food.

Sam nodded.

"How's the Technicolor rainbow?"

"Sore," he admitted, one hand automatically going to his side. "But getting better. I think I can even handle your car now."

Dean snorted. "We'll stick to rest-stop motels until you're up for the gig."

"California?" Sam asked. He vaguely remembered Dean talking about a crew missing off a fishing trawler.

"North Cali. We can head down south after, if you want, see some of your college buddies." A glance up at Sam while Dean's head remained bowed over his food. "Stop by the cemetery."

Sam's mouth pulled into a soft smile. The few times when Dean _didn't _read his mind, Sam had a feeling it was only because he didn't want to. "I'm sure we can find something down there to kill, too," he said by way of thanks.

"Sweet-talker." Dean had finished his pancakes and was opening another small Styrofoam box.

It contained a fat, gooey cinnamon roll, Sam saw with disbelief. Because apparently six pancakes drenched in syrup and a pile of bacon hadn't been enough. He swallowed a smile with his next bite of food.

Dean lifted the roll for a bite and cleared his throat. "So, you ready to tell me about your dreams?" He bit and chewed casually, but his gaze burned into Sam.

Sam froze mid-chew. "What?"

Dean made a face. "C'mon, man, don't give me that—your secret's out already, remember? Nothing left to hide, so you might as well tell me. No holding out on your big brother anymore."

He swallowed slowly, not having tasted the food. "Dean, you already—"

"No, actually. I don't," was the flat response. "I know you're dreaming about Jessica because you wake up calling her name, but other than that? You haven't exactly been spilling your guts, Sam."

"And since when do we talk about stuff, Dean?" Sam asked irritably. "I'm not the one who hates soul-baring scenes."

The roll dropped back into the carton with a plop, and Dean glared at Sam with stormy eyes. "Yeah, well. Maybe it's worse having a brother who's falling apart on me."

Sam jutted out his jaw, ready to push himself back from the table. "If I'm holding you back, you can always drop me off at school." His throat, protesting the strong tones, throbbed and made his voice crack.

A darkness he could have sworn was regret passed through the hazel eyes. "Sammy…"

The abruptly gentled tone, the affectionate nickname, killed Sam's anger as quickly as it had been born. He sagged back in the chair as Dean picked up his fork and poked at the food.

"Look," Dean finally said, making eye contact only in brief spurts, "I don't want to fight you on this. If you don't want to talk to me, fine, I'm not gonna beat it out of you. But even if it's gotten better since Bloody Mary, I can see what it's still doing to you, and, dude," his mouth pulled into a pained grin, "you're starting to scare me here. So…maybe I don't understand what you're going through, but I still think it would help to talk about it, get it off your chest."

Three-plus years had opened some gaps between them: secrets, awkwardness, unfamiliarity. Pancake bribes and his big brother channeling Dr. Drew were apparently necessary to have an honest conversation now. In the past, Sam had always talked to him before it got that far, and Dean had always, always listened. But he'd shut Dean in a box during those last few years at Stanford, trying to diminish the pain of loss, and sometimes it was hard to open up again.

This concerned, pleading version of his brother, however, this was never what Sam had wanted. He trusted Dean more than that. Was a little stubborn sometimes, but he'd never stopped trusting Dean.

The silence had stretched on too long, and Dean's mask of indifference slipped back into place. "You know what? Forget it." He took a bite of his roll and didn't look at Sam.

"No, Dean, I…" Sam shoved the pancakes aside impatiently and leaned forward over the table. "I just…I don't know what to tell you. The first couple of times I dreamed about her coming up out of her grave, or turning around and finding her in bed with me. But since then it's just been seeing her die again, over and over. It's not like there's that much to tell."

Dean's gaze was still wary but he was listening. "So, what, it's just a memory? Plays out the same way it happened?"

"Pretty much." Sam paused, reflecting, really trying to remember for the first time. "The shower's running. I lay down on the bed, and then something's dripping on my face and…she's on the ceiling and there's…" He cleared his throat. "The blood, then the fire." He frowned with the memory. "Sometimes she says something."

"What?"

"'Why?'" Sam smiled mirthlessly. "She wants to know why I didn't tell her."

"Uh, maybe because you didn't know?" Dean shook his head with a shrug and a _duh!_ expression.

"But I dreamed—"

"Yeah, and maybe if you'd had visions before, that might have meant something. You didn't know it was going to happen, Sam—you would have warned her if you did. Even then, it probably still wouldn't have done any good. But for all you knew, you were just reliving what happened to Mom."

"I know." He nodded. "I know that, Dean. But when she looks at me and she's bleeding…" He blinked back the sudden wetness in his eyes.

Dean's mouth twisted, and he stood, disappearing into the bathroom. He came back with a glass of water, calloused fingers rubbing the base of Sam's neck for a moment as he crossed behind him. Dean sat on the end of the bed near Sam's chair. "Anything else?" he asked quietly.

Sam took a drink of the water, appreciating that it went down smooth, unlike the juice, and shook his head.

Silence descended. Sam nursed the glass of water, gazing dully into its depths. Dean seemed to be digesting, and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know what his brother came up with.

It wasn't what he expected.

"Maybe you can save her."

Sam turned to stare at him.

"In your dream," Dean added. He tipped his head to one side. "Dreams are all about wishing, right? Sorting out stuff so it makes sense? Well, except for yours, with that whole masochistic thing you've got going. But maybe your freaky head's trying to give you a chance to fix things and then it'll settle down."

Sam pressed his lips together. "I can't…_fix_ anything, Dean. Jess is gone, and—"

"And you miss her, and that sucks, I know. But not everything is about making you pay for what you couldn't change, Sam." Dean paused, eyes going distant, and he unexpectedly chuckled. "Remember all those bad dreams you had when you were a kid? You'd wake me up and tell me about the shark or cactus or whatever it was that was chasing you, and remember what we used to do?"

Sam's mouth pulled up faintly at the memory despite himself. "Figure out how to beat it."

"Right. And it got rid of the nightmare, right?"

"Dean, this isn't some kid's—"

"I get that, Sam." Dean regarded him soberly. "But maybe your head just needs you to work this out so you can, I don't know, move on."

What if he didn't want to move on?, Sam almost asked, but that wasn't true. His dad never had, and Sam didn't want to become like John. He just didn't want to fail Jess again.

He also didn't really want to be talking about this, dragging the pain of each night into the day. Except, it didn't seem so awful now, dissected in the light. The sweet-baked smell of the pancakes overlay the stench of smoke, and Dean was close enough to grab when the heat seemed too real.

Sam sighed, leaning forward to prop his arms on his thighs and rub his forehead. The muscles in his back ached at the movement and he was already exhausted. He didn't think it was that easy—just _save_ her?—but it was the closest he'd gotten to anything even remotely resembling a strategy for dealing with the nightmares, and that alone took a little bit of the helplessness away. He should have said something to Dean before, but he'd been quietly afraid of his brother's reaction to his "shining," to Sam being the unexplained. He really should have known better.

"Sam?" A patient question, but waiting for an answer.

Sam dropped his hand, gave his brother a wan smile. "Yeah, maybe."

Dean shrugged. "Worth a try. And if that doesn't work, wake me up next time and we'll figure something else out."

Sam's smile strengthened. "You mean, crawl into bed with you and tell you about my nightmare?"

"Uh, without the incestual undertones part, yeah."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Right. You've got some serious double standards, man, you know that?"

Dean rose to his feet. "Yeah, whatever. So, you done with breakfast?"

Sam glanced at the food with disinterest. "I'm kinda tired." Again. He'd been up and awake for a whole half-hour this time, but the emotional workout had drained him as surely as a physical one, leaving him feeling fumbling and heavy.

"Go back to bed," Dean said without hesitation. "I'll wake you for lunch."

It was how he'd spent most of the last two—three?—days, sleeping with occasional breaks to eat, watch TV, or play cribbage with Dean. But his healing body craved the sleep, and it felt good to rest, really rest. Sam dragged himself over to the bed with weary relief. "You going out again?" he asked drowsily.

"Nope. Stopped by the library and got some books to read." Dean held up a bodice-ripper with a shameless grin.

Sam groaned. "You're gonna rot the few brain cells you've got left with that stuff."

"Says the guy who reads law books for fun."

He snorted, dropping onto the bed and lying back. It reminded him of that night, and Sam closed his eyes and pushed the memory away, letting the peaceful sounds of Dean's clean-up roll over him instead. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Dean kept working. "For what?"

"Not telling you. I_wanted_ to, but…" Sam chuckled mirthlessly. "I didn't want to think about it, and I guess I've gotten used to keeping my own secrets. After three years, it's hard to just stop, man."

Dean had finished and come over to the other bed. "Go to sleep, Sam," he said patiently. It was understanding and forgiveness, Dean-style.

Sam smiled for real this time, and turned on his side to burrow his face into his pillow. He heard his brother stretch out on the other bed, chewing on his cinnamon roll and flipping pages. Waiting for him. Ready to talk if Sam woke up gasping, or just ready to talk.

Sam had missed that, and wondered if the silence he'd imposed on himself had been just another form of punishing himself for Jess. Then sleep washed even that thought away.

And in his dreams, Sam finally fought back.

**The End**


End file.
